


Kissing Dorian

by The_Real_Fenris



Series: Enchanter, Come to Me [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Domestic Violence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Rape Fantasy, Skyhold, Smut, Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Turning, the Inquisitor recognized the man as the one who had offered to sacrifice himself to save her and the others at Adamant. A man they had all presumed dead, but who was, inexplicably, still alive. The Champion of Kirkwall. Garrett Hawke."</p><p>In the year since the events at Adamant, Fenris has made a new life at Skyhold. But when Hawke reappears, Fenris has to make a choice between his old life and the new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wicked Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/gifts), [Kamille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamille/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor just wants a nice evening playing Wicked Grace.

Nine months had passed since the Inquisition had defeated Corypheus and saved the world from its imminent destruction.

And yet Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan was still so busy that it had been three weeks since she’d last had a chance to spend a distracted evening playing Wicked Grace. Save the damn world once, and then everybody and his third cousin expected you to solve all their problems. And, for some reason, most of those problems involved either nobles trying to poison one another, or goats.

Nobles – those she could pass off onto Josephine. She still wasn’t certain what to do about the goats.

Varric flipped up the Angel of Death, forcing the players to reveal their cards. To her chagrin, Fenris had four daggers, which gave him the winning hand. Again. As he slid his winnings to his side of the table, the Inquisitor huffed. “Son of a bitch, Varric. Why’d you have to ask Fenris to fill in? Everybody knows elves cheat.”

Fenris calmly arranged his coins into neat piles. “I do not cheat.”

Varric’s hands were already gathering the cards and reshuffling the deck. “Well, Inquisitor, maybe if you hadn’t dispatched Dorian off to Tevinter, then we wouldn’t have _needed_ to find someone to fill in for him.”

Well, Varric _did_ have a point. Not that she would admit to _that._ The Inquisitor snorted.

Varric grinned. “Besides, you like Fenris. You have to admit that he does grow on you.”

“Yeah. And so does mold if you stand still long enough.”

Irritation furrowed the elf’s brow. “Did you just compare me to _mold_?”

“Really, Inquisitor,” Varric said. “I’d say Broody is more like a thorn bush. Dark and prickly.”

Fenris sighed and rolled his eyes.

They’d played a few more hands when Dorian, still wearing a traveling cloak, with a pack slung over his shoulder, waltzed into the Herald’s Rest and made a beeline for their table. “Well!” he chirped cheerfully. “Varric and the Inquisitor playing cards and drinking rotgut in the tavern. Good to know that nothing has changed in the six weeks that I’ve been away.” He dropped his pack on the floor, then smiled at the dwarf. “Varric.”

Varric regarded the mage with genuine warmth. “Glad you made it out of Tevinter alive, Sparkler.”

“Often easier said than done, I’m afraid, given that my countrymen’s favorite hobby is murder,” Dorian quipped, then flashed white teeth at the elf. “Fenris.”

In response, Fenris merely grunted.

“Now, there’s the warm welcome I expect when I return to the Frostback mountains,” he said with his usual level of snark. “Oh, but the weather in Tevinter was glorious! I’d forgotten what it was like, not seeing icicles whenever I piss.”

Varric turned a little more in his chair, eyeing the mage more closely. “You just got back from Tevinter right now? And came here?”

“Well, like a good little servant of the Inquisition, I’ve come directly to give the Inquisitor my report.”

“I don’t want it,” the Inquisitor replied gruffly. “So quit your yapping and join us, or go get a haircut.”

Dorian tossed back his cloak, then slid down into the remaining available chair. “Eve, dear. My hair is amazing. Everyone says so.”

“I liked it better short.”

Dorian ran his fingers leisurely through his ponytail, then swept up his cards as Varric dealt him in. “So, any good rumors while I was gone?”

Varric perked up. “Well, I heard that someone has hired the Antivan Crows to kill a very important magister in the Imperium.”

“Interesting,” Dorian murmured, wondering who that magister could _be._ It was probable that it was someone he personally knew, and most likely despised. He then looked at Evelyn. “Can you top that?”

The Inquisitor grinned. “Well, I heard that a certain Charger known as Krem de la Krem is now romantically involved with a certain ambassador of the Inquisition.”

Dorian lit up with surprise. “Krem and _Josephine_? How scandalous!”

Everyone now turned to Fenris. “Well,” he finally rumbled, “I heard that the Inquisitor recently received a proposal. Of marriage.”

Everyone froze, staring at Fenris in astonishment. Not least of all, the Inquisitor herself. Then she regained her composure. “The Fade take you,” she cursed. “How did _you_ hear about _that?”_

Fenris just smirked.

Dorian slapped his cards face down on the table. “Wait. Then it’s true? Cullen proposed?” Dorian paused, considering her less-than-delighted expression. “You did say yes, Eve, didn’t you?”

“Not... exactly.”

“What? Why?”

“I didn’t say no, either. I just... It’s complicated. And...” She trailed off, then scowled her companions. “Never mind. Just shut up and play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I'm picturing Dorian in this story. I never thought long hair would suit him until I saw this divine sketch by brightfallenstars. Go Google her RIGHT NOW because her DA fan art (especially Dorian and Fenris, of course!) is wonderful.


	2. A New, Special Kind of Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds someone waiting for him in his room after he returns from the baths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were hoping for smut, well, here you go!

After a few rounds, Dorian left the tavern early and headed for the baths. After all, he had been traveling most of the day, and was in dire need of both personal hygiene and a good soak in hot water to ease the aches out of his saddle-sore muscles.

Opening the door to his room, he wasn’t surprised to see Fenris sitting on the bed, hands resting on the edge of the mattress, his legs stretched out in front of him.

Closing the door, Dorian smiled. “Waiting for me?”

Fenris fixed him in a hungry stare, then pushed himself up off the bed. His hands curled into the front of Dorian’s shirt, maneuvering the mage around in a circle before knocking him down to the bed.

Dorian let himself fall back, Fenris on top of him, already wresting Dorian’s shirt up and over his head.

 _This elf..._ Dorian gave him a saucy grin as Fenris tossed Dorian’s shirt carelessly on the floor before reaching to remove his own. “No games tonight?”

Fenris’ shirt joined Dorian’s on the floor before his hands fell on Dorian’s belt. “Tomorrow.”

Dorian lifted his hips slightly as Fenris tugged down his pants. “Is that a promise?”

Fenris yanked off boots, then wriggled Dorian’s pants the rest of the way off, tossing them in the pile. Briefly he considered Dorian’s small clothes. They were the red ones. Fenris liked the red ones. Still, he slipped his fingers under the waistband, sliding them off, and trying not to be annoyed that Dorian wasn’t really helping. “If you wish.”

Dorian leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, watching with casual interest as Fenris proceeded to take off his own pants. “You know, you could have at least asked me about my trip,” Dorian chided. “Or perhaps kissed me hello?”

“We can talk after,” Fenris growled, moving so that he was straddling the mage, and wrapped his fingers around Dorian’s prick.

 _Mmm. Ah..._ “Oh, _after_ , he says,” Dorian said, lightly mocking. “Well, I can see where your priorities are.”

“Six weeks, Dorian...” Fenris muttered as he continued to stroke Dorian. Then: “Are you just going to lie there?”

And let Fenris do all the work? Tempting. Especially since Fenris’ hand, squeezing and stroking him, was having its usual effect. Yet, there was no mistaking the frustration in Fenris’ voice. “Well,” Dorian conceded, “I did pick up a new, special kind of oil in Tevinter.”

Fenris looked at him with interest.

Dorian leaned up, offering his mouth. As Fenris kissed him, he slipped his hand between the elf’s legs, running his fingers along the hard and silky length of Fenris’ cock, as Fenris continued to touch his. _Six weeks..._ Yes, six weeks with no sex, no kissing, and definitely no sexy elf wanting him.

Dorian hummed contentedly as he lay back again. “You know, I did just come from the baths,” he said. “So I’m _very_ clean.”

Fenris knew what that meant. What Dorian wanted. And he had no problem with complying.

Hands moving. Bodies shifting. Dorian, on his hands and knees, making familiar, soft sounds of pleasure as Fenris, behind him, licked, then proceeded to press his tongue into Dorian’s ass. Heavenly torture, and Dorian was already short of breath by the time Fenris eventually replaced tongue with fingers, drenched in Dorian’s new, special oil. And then gasping as fingers were replaced by that smooth, hard, silky cock.

As Fenris began to move, something felt different. Strangely, Dorian felt more hot and tight than usual, although Fenris was still able to slide in smoothly. And, judging by Dorian’s soft groans, he was clearly enjoying it without any discomfort.

Fenris could feel his control rapidly spiraling away. He decided he would bring the mage to a swift release. After all, it _had_ been six weeks... Hand trailing down, he took Dorian into his fist.

Dorian loved it. All those delicious sensations meshed together. “Ahh, damn you,” he muttered, as those sword-calloused fingers worked deftly at his cock. Then Fenris’ other hand wound into his hair, twisting his head around, and Fenris’ mouth fell upon his. Another delicious sensation as Dorian greedily sucked on his tongue.

The more friction, the hotter and tighter and more slippery Dorian felt. Fenris barely had the brain power to puzzle over it. All he knew, he was dangerously close to losing complete control. In another moment, he was going to come. But that wouldn’t do. Fighting against all instinct to the contrary, Fenris pulled all the way out.

Dorian made a small noise of protest. “Fen... what are you doing?”

No, Fenris didn’t want to admit that he’d been about to lose control. His hands already on Dorian’s hips, turning the mage around, his voice was husky. “I want to look at you.”

With some maneuvering, they had changed positions so that Dorian was now in Fenris’ lap, riding him. Fenris was sitting on the bed, his back to the wall, his hands on Dorian’s hips, as their bodies moved in tandem. Half-bracing himself against the wall, his other hand languidly stroking himself, Dorian stared down into those misty, seawater green eyes. _Oh, Maker, he is marvelous._

Fenris had assumed that a change of position would help cool his ardor, but Dorian was too hot, too tight, and too slick around him. Willpower was useless. His markings flared, but lyrium was also useless. Overwhelmed, against his will, Fenris suddenly came hard, shuddering and gasping, thudding his release deep into Dorian’s body.

After, somewhat dazed, Fenris’ head head fell back, thumping against the wall.

Dorian gazed down at Fenris, all too pleased with himself. After nearly a year of having sex with this elf, Fenris had finally come first. When Fenris finally cracked open an eye, Dorian grinned at him, unable to stop himself from lording this small victory over his lover. “So... how did you like that special oil?”

Fenris growled at him. Then reached for the container. His hand slick, he grasped Dorian’s shaft and enacted his revenge.

His fist hot, slick and tight, it wasn’t long before Dorian succumbed to the pleasure, spilling his seed over himself and Fenris’ hand.

 _Maker..._ spent, Dorian tumbled down to the bed, trying to catch his breath.

A moment passed, then he felt Fenris’ tongue, licking his belly clean. “Pervert,” he murmured.

Fenris laughed softly. Then shifted, moving so that he was curled up next to Dorian, his head on Dorian’s shoulder. An arm across the mage’s chest. Languid, Dorian’s fingers trailed along the scars across Fenris’ back.

“Go ahead,” Fenris rumbled against his ear. “Tell me about your trip.”


	3. A Good Little Servant of the Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has tea with the Inquisitor.

Dorian met the Inquisitor the next afternoon in her quarters for tea.

The tea was Rivaini, but brewed strong in the Orlesian fashion, and served with honey and milk. Along with the tea, there was a plate of lemon cookies and some cakes filled with raspberry cream, both from a well-known patisserie in Val Royeaux.

He would have to submit an official, written report to Leliana but, as they sat on the Inquisitor’s chaise lounge, he recounted the highlights of his time in Minrathous as the official ambassador of the Inquisition in Tevinter. A list of names of the new contacts and potential allies in the magisterium would have been meaningless to the Inquisitor, so Dorian limited himself to a few choice anecdotes about members of the some of the most powerful and influential Houses in the capital. Politics being what they were in Tevinter, most of his tales were set in a never-ending series of parties, which included excessive drinking, plenty of dancing, numerous assassinations, and a plethora of magic.

Some of it blood magic.

There was a calculating edge in the Inquisitor’s gaze. Dorian could almost see her mind processing the information, already turning over the various possibilities of political alliances with Dorian’s countrymen. But all she said was, “Sounds like you had fun.”

“If by ‘fun’ you mean mistrust, whispered disapproval, bribery, attempted poisonings, and an ambush or two, in what amounts to a pit of vipers, then... yes. It was most delightful.”

The Inquisitor grinned into her teacup. In truth, she couldn’t have asked for a better man as an ambassador to Tevinter. His wit and intelligence gave him an edge, and his magical skill would only garner respect among the other mages of the magisterium.

Dorian’s expression changed, now serious. “There is one bit of business you should know. The Venatori magisters may have lost their precious ‘Elder One,’ but apparently they’ve decided not to lie down and be quiet. There are rumors that they’ve regathered in Minrathous, and that they’re now trying to repeat the ritual that Corypheus used to reach the Black City.”

The Inquisitor mulled over this information. “That’s not good.”

“No, tearing holes between reality and the Fade to become gods never is,” Dorian snarked. “Especially when it has that nasty side effect of destroying the whole world.”

The Inquisitor reflected about this. “How detailed are these rumors?"

“I have locations. And names,” he revealed. When the Inquisitor didn’t reply, he drawled, “Now would be a good time for you to thank me not only for uncovering, but also for solving what is perhaps the most pressing problem of the Inquisition. And, of course, telling me what a wonderful job I’ve done.”

“You’re already too well-aware of how wonderful you are. You don’t need me to encourage you.” The Inquisitor smiled wryly. “But, if I thought it wouldn’t offend you, I would kiss you right now.”

Dorian leaned back on the chaise lounge, regarding his Inquisitor. “Speaking of men you should be kissing... I think we should talk about Cullen’s proposal,” he said. “Really, Eve, it’s been a year. Shouldn’t you be ready to take it to the next level?”

Her scowl could have peeled the skin off a cat. “My family has raised a fuss,” she said. “According to them, Cullen comes from too common a bloodline to be admitted into the grand and noble Trevelyan family.” She paused. Then she gazed at Dorian with the same, calculating stare as before. “Speaking of which, it’s been a year. Shouldn’t _you_ and Fenris be ready to take it to the next level?”

Dorian choked on his tea. Unfair of her to turn his question completely around on him. “That’s hardly the same.”

Evelyn clucked her tongue at him. “Are you seriously still pretending that you’re just using each other for sex?”

Actually... yes. That was precisely what they were pretending. At least in public. Though it didn’t mean that they were having a grand romance such as those in Varric’s books. Dorian stared blankly at the Inquisitor for a long moment. Then he sighed, and gently set his teacup down in its delicate saucer. “We don’t talk about our relationship,” he admitted, his tone serious. “Or the future.” He paused, stroking his mustache. “I suppose it’s because, when we started, neither one of us expected that it would last this long.”

The Inquisitor looked thoughtful. Turned her own teacup around in her hands without drinking from it. “He’s been faithful to you, you know,” she said. “At least since the two of you had that fling with the assassin.”

Surprise rooted Dorian to the spot. Then: “Eve, how did you know about _that?”_ he demanded. Then, “No, wait – let me rephrase that – how do you just _know?”_

The Inquisitor’s smile was smug. “Leliana.”

“What?! You mean you’re using Leliana’s network to _spy_ on us?”

“Of course I am,” she said. “I’m the Inquisitor. I need to know everything.” She smirked at him. “I even know what color small clothes you were wearing yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Red. Made of silk.”

A moment before he had been merely shocked. Now he was stunned into momentary silence. And why did he have the strong suspicion that the Inquisitor was now picturing him in his silky, red small clothes? Not that everyone shouldn’t, of course, given how devastatingly handsome and sexy he was.

Dorian cleared his throat. “This conversation has become rather... disturbing.”

The Inquisitor gave him an indifferent shrug.

Dorian picked up his teacup again. Took a thoughtful sip. “Well, I suppose you’re now going to tell me what to do about Fenris.”

The Inquisitor’s lips curled up into a dastardly smile. “Yes, and you’re going to be a good little servant of the Inquisition and follow my commands.”


	4. The Game He Wanted to Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is working when Dorian shows up with a request.

Fenris was in the training yard, drilling the new recruits.

After they had defeated Corypheus, there had still been some use for the warriors of the inner circle and their swords. Mostly skirmishes with bandits, the Venatori, and stray darkspawn. They had killed the bandits, drove back the darkspawn, and forced the Venatori to go into hiding. Eventually, though, it was brought to the Inquisitor’s attention that Fenris, Blackwall and Iron Bull were being paid good Inquisition coin to mostly sit around drinking in the tavern instead of hacking and slashing at things. Thus, their idleness came to an end.

Of course, it wasn’t just the warriors who had come under the Inquisitor’s scrutiny. The rogues and mages of the inner circle were equally idle. However, finding new tasks for them was far easier. The rogues were given to Leliana – Sera and Cole for secret missions, and Varric to oversee Skyhold’s flourishing trade – while the mages were given to Josephine as ambassadors – Dorian to Tevinter, of course, and Vivienne to Orlais.

Cassandra had already returned to the Chantry, so this left the three remaining swordsmen with nothing to do. After some negotiations, Iron Bull had managed to convince the Inquisitor that his band of mercenaries would be perfect to keep on the payroll to handle any Inquisition business that required muscle more than finesse, but was too “dirty” for the regular forces to handle. No one was surprised when Blackwall, after some consideration, decided that he would leave to find what remained of the Grey Wardens. As for Fenris, the only place for him to go was under Cullen’s command. Where he’d been assigned the task of training the new recruits.

Once, in Kirkwall, Aveline had offered Fenris the very same job: teach her guardsmen the art of fighting with Tevinter techniques. He’d refused that on the grounds that his abilities had been inflicted upon him, and he would not pass them on. Again, he refused, and for a while it appeared that the Inquisition would turn him out, but then the Inquisitor came up with a concession. Fenris would oversee the normal drills, offer guidance where it was needed, but mostly his task was to assess the potential of all the new recruits.

It turned out that Fernis was a very good judge of not only a man’s skill with a weapon, but also of his character.

The drills were nearly over when Cullen appeared in the training yard and asked Fenris for an update.

Fenris indicated a small, very young, dark-haired lad at one end. “Voisin lacks the strength to become a great warrior. However, he’s very quick, and he’s no fool. He watches everything. I think it best if we were to give him to Leliana.” As Cullen nodded, Fenris pointed out a larger, slightly older man near the middle. “Duford. Not one spark of wit. Quick to anger, and often deep in his cups. Rumor has it he attacked one of the serving girls the other night. The Inquisition can do better.” Fenris moved on to the next. “Marchand. Court-trained, and trained well. He is a fine man, and dedicated. I suggest you keep an eye on him. He will rise quickly in the ranks.”

Cullen listened as Fenris finished his assessment of the remaining recruits. “Thank you, Fenris.”

Fenris sketched the appropriate quick bow. “Of course, Commander.”

Cullen started to walk away, but then stopped, turning curiously back to the elf. “Fenris? I don’t suppose...?” he began, but then trailed off, frowning slightly. “No, I suppose not,” he answered himself, then strode out of the yard.

Fenris watched Cullen go, somewhat grateful that Cullen hadn’t asked his question.

Fenris barked an order. As the recruits now thrust their training swords into the bellies of the dummies, Fenris reflected on his time in Skyhold.

Exactly one year had passed since Adamant. He still missed Hawke, but time had softened the once brutally jagged edge of his pain. Memories, once held close, were becoming hazy. He and Varric hadn’t even spoken Hawke’s name in at least two months. Somehow, that felt like more of a betrayal to Hawke’s memory than anything Fenris had let Dorian, or those many nameless soldiers, do with his body.

Or perhaps it just meant that he was finally ready to move on.

He had just dismissed the recruits for the day when he happened to glance over at the stairs, and saw Dorian descending.

Fenris watched as Dorian approached. Fenris liked watching Dorian. The way he moved was both graceful and confident. And he was such a sexy man.

It was strange how often he would forget that Dorian was a mage from a long-line of Tevinter magisters. Most of the time, especially when they were alone, he was just... _Dorian._

“I thought I’d find you here,” Dorian said.

Fenris gave him a curious, questing look.

Dorian glanced around to make sure no one was listening. After his last conversation with the Inquisitor, he was convinced that she had prying ears _everywhere._ “I just wanted to say...” he began, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t forget that you made me a promise the other night.”

It took Fenris an effort to swallow his smile. “I remember,” he said. “What do you want?”

By now, he was familiar with all of Dorian’s gestures and expressions, and could usually guess what Dorian was about to say before he said it. Now there was a telling pause, and by the way Dorian tilted his chin, not quite meeting Fenris’ gaze straight-on, he knew that whatever Dorian was going to say, Dorian was moderately certain that Fenris wasn’t going to like it.

Fenris willed himself not to react, and just listened as Dorian described and outlined the rules of the game he wanted to play.

Fenris’ first thought, when Dorian finished speaking, was: _Does he really want to do_ that _? With me?_ He now understood Dorian’s hesitation. And he understood why they were having this conversation in a public space where nothing could happen on a whim, instead of in the bedroom.

Fenris had another thought: _He’s been practicing that speech._ Dorian had spoken very plainly, and made the rules of the game very clear, so there could be no misunderstandings. And, it was also clear that this game was something that Dorian had been thinking about for a while, and the fact that he was willing to speak about his fantasy so openly meant that he wanted it badly enough to risk Fenris’ disapproval.

Fenris wasn’t sure how he felt about this particular fantasy. Strangely, the request didn’t disgust him. Bedroom games were quite popular talk in Tevinter, so it wasn’t as though the idea was foreign to him. Still, he didn’t know why anybody would willingly want to do _that._ He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. It was... odd.

Fenris was aware that Dorian was watching him closely, waiting for his response, and tapping nervous fingers lightly against his lips.

“Tonight?” Fenris asked.

Dorian visibly relaxed with relief. “No,” he said. Then he smiled. “Surprise me. I think it would be more fun that way.”

How neatly Dorian had just dumped the decision into Fenris’ lap. Fenris could now take all the time he needed to think it over. If he chose to play, it would be at his discretion. Or he could choose not to play, and Dorian would never bring up the suggestion again. Either way, no pressure.

“As you wish,” Fenris said.


	5. Fire Verge Pain Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris decides to play Dorian's game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is this scene is safe/consensual, but does contain rape role play, so please read at your own discretion.

Fenris stood, indecisive, outside of Dorian’s door.

He’d waited three days already. Once again he asked himself the usual questions: _Do I want to do this? Should I? Can I?_

His fingers tightened around the rope.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved the coil of rope down the back of his pants, then threw the door open.

Dorian glanced up as Fenris burst into the room. He was sitting on his bed, using a book propped up in his lap as a makeshift desk, in the middle of writing his very overdue report to Leliana, who was most likely going to murder him if he didn’t give it to her in the morning. Really not the best time for an interruption. Before he could speak, however, Fenris had already slammed the door shut, crossed the room, and pushed Dorian down on the bed below him.

Ink spilled, papers crumpled, and now there was a very heavy history tome pressing most uncomfortably in his groin. “Fen! What the –? Ink! My report! Shit!”

Beneath him, Dorian was wriggling to get free. However, Fenris knew how strong the mage was, and that the man wasn’t putting up much of a fight. Somewhat encouraged by Dorian’s merely feeble attempts, Fenris let the lyrium under his skin flare to life as he seized Dorian by the wrist.

 _Ink all over the bedclothes – damn it! i_ s what Dorian had been thinking, at least until Fenris caught Dorian’s wrist in his hand, locking his arm into place with all the strength that the lyrium gave him. His grip was tight – not quite enough to hurt, but he certainly had Dorian’s attention. He protested loudly. “Fen! What are you doing?”

Green eyes blazed into his, as his other hand withdrew the coil of rope he’d shoved in the waistband of the back of his pants. His voice was a husky growl. “I’m putting you in your place, mage.”

Dorian froze. The quill he’d been holding slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the bed. He’d been so distracted by his report that it hadn’t even occurred to him why Fenris was here. Only once Fenris had already wound the rope around his left wrist and grabbed the right one did Dorian remember his role in this scenario.

He twisted his unfettered arm free, and struggled to loosen Fenris’ hold on the other. His hazel eyes flashed fiercely. “You impudent elf! How dare you?!”

Such fire. Fenris had to remind himself how Dorian could stop the game at any time – by watchword, by actual resistance, or by spell. Not that Fenris liked to dwell on it but, given the amount of magical power his lover possessed, Dorian was _dangerous._ “Shut up, mage, or I’ll gag you, as well.”

Dorian froze again. All of a sudden his stomach was tight, his body tingling. He barely put up a fight as Fenris captured his other arm again, binding his wrists together.

In Dorian’s eyes, hunger.

Another flare of lyrium, and Fenris was able to jerk the resisting mage off the bed without much difficulty, then pushed him down over the table. _Maker, he’s so strong..._ Dorian truly struggled in vain as Fenris, his markings still flashing, pulled his arms above his head, then wrapped and fastened the remainder of the rope around one of the table legs.

Then struggle was futile. Dorian was bent over the table, wrists bound and arms immobile, unable to do anything.

For a moment, nothing happened. Dorian, who could do nothing else, waited, not speaking as per Fenris’ command, the anticipation killing him.

Tying him down – Dorian hadn’t expected that. _Maker, this elf is brilliant._

Fenris’ hand then snaked into Dorian’s hair, loosening the tie of his ponytail, letting his hair fall loose about his face.

Next, he felt Fenris’ hand slide up his back, pushing his shirt up to his shoulders. He made breathless sounds as Fenris touched his back. A moment passed and then Fenris was unlacing his pants, pulling them down.

As Fenris began to manhandle him, Dorian closed his eyes. The elf’s touch was determined, possessive, but, at the same time, languorous. His hands were everywhere, touching every part of Dorian’s body he could reach, long sweeps of palm over flanks, moving in spirals across his back, then, finally fingers exploring between his legs for a few moments before rubbing up and down the length of Dorian’s shaft.

 _Yes,_ Dorian thought, and then, as Fenris suddenly drew back his hand, leaving him only half-engorged, _No... not fair..._

Fenris stepped back, slowly stripping off his shirt as he considered the mage. With his beautiful body tied down and exposed like that, his dark hair spread across the table, he looked helpless. The sight was strangely... arousing. Inflicting pain was against the rules, but Dorian had given Fenris leave to do whatever else he wanted. And what Fenris wanted now was to make Dorian a slave to his own desire.

Fenris withdrew. Dorian lifted his head, but couldn’t really see behind him. A moment later, Fenris returned, his oiled fingers sliding up Dorian’s thighs, roughly nudging them open.

Dorian gasped as Fenris insinuated a finger inside him. Then it became hard to breathe as Fenris’ finger moved slowly inside him. Then, it felt like an electric shock to the tip of his cock, as Fenris, by habit, found and began to stroke that sensitive spot.

Dorian was instantly hard. And he could still feel those prickles of electricity, except that now they ran the entire length of his prick. As Fenris teased at him with his fingers, Dorian writhed against the ropes, feeling the hard wood under his chest, the pressure of Fenris against his back, and the sweet fire burning steadily hotter deep in both his belly and his ass.

Dorian wanted it. Fenris inside him. He was ready for it. Usually, at this point, Fenris would stop fingering him and move on to the main event. But this time, Fenris continued to tease him with his fingers. Without stopping. On and on and on.

Dorian lost track of the number of times the clock clicked a minute. Fifteen? Twenty? All he was aware of was the fire in his body that was on the verge of consuming him, that he had a desperate need for a release, and that his neglected cock, painfully erect, had been, all the while, leaking a copious amount of fluid.

Finally Fenris stilled his hand. He leaned down to speak in Dorian’s ear, voice soft and deadly. “Do you want it, mage?”

Dorian’s role as victim meant he was supposed to resist, but any pretense of resistance had vanished some time ago. “Maker _yes.”_

“Beg for it.”

Because of the _fire verge pain need_ , Dorian barely had a coherent thought left in his head anymore. At this point, he would have done just about _anything_ that Fenris commanded, no matter how sordid or shameful. Trying to ignore how pathetic his own voice sounded, Dorian begged. “Please. Oh, gods, _please._ Please fuck me. _Now,_ I beg you, Fen, _please.”_

Dorian nearly sobbed when Fenris complied.

Fenris started off slow, tormenting Dorian a little longer, enjoying the desperate whimpers that emerged from the mage’s throat, and, then once Fenris was pounding into him, Dorian’s wanton moans. _Ah damn_ , it felt good to fuck Dorian into the table. He could definitely come now. But, game or no game, he wasn’t going to be the one to come first. Flaring his lyrium just a little, Fenris reached around to touch Dorian.

After only a few quick tugs, Dorian convulsed under him and around him. Then collapsed against the table, breathless, numb, a thoughtless beast. He was only vaguely aware of Fenris finishing before carefully pulling out.

Fenris tucked himself away, then retied the laces of his pants before moving to the opposite side of the table. Crouching down, he studied Dorian’s face. The mage’s eyes were glazed, his lips parted and wet... Fenris wasn’t certain if he’d ever seen Dorian ever look this blissed out before. He then turned his attention to the ropes.

Fenris frowned slightly at the chaffing the ropes had caused against Dorian’s wrists. Still, it was minor annoyance. Fenris felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this mellow. Surprising that. He’d never been into kink, and Hawke had never suggested it – either because he wasn’t the type of man to play bedroom games, or because he’d always been sensitive to Fenris’ feelings about his past as a slave. But with Dorian... Fenris had liked being in control, and making the other man submit.

Once Fenris had released him, Dorian pushed himself off the table, then pulled up his pants without lacing them, taking a few steps before he half-sat, half-fell down to the edge of the bed. In silence, he ran both hands through his mussed hair, smoothing it back away from his face.

Fenris eased himself down on the edge of the bed next to Dorian, still watching him closely. “Dorian?”

Dorian was silent, looking pensive. Then a twitch of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Next time – gag me.”

One of Fenris’ eyebrows cocked up. “If I actually did that, you wouldn’t be able to speak the watchword.”

“Oh. I trust you.”

Fenris just continued to stare at him, unconvinced.

Dorian continued to smile that ghostly smile at him for another moment. Then he reached out, drawing Fenris down to the bed beside him.

As Fenris snuggled more closely against his side, Dorian stroked the elf’s bare shoulder, trailed his fingers down Fenris’ collarbones, then let his hand come to rest on Fenris’ arm. _“Amatus?”_

“Yes, Dorian?”

“The Inquisitor said that there is a larger room available at Skyhold... if you and I were to share it.”

Fenris remained quiet, not knowing how to reply to that. _This man... the things he says..._ He then felt Dorian’s hand on his face, urging Fenris to look at him. Hazel eyes searched green, and then Dorian kissed him.

Gentle pressure. Soft lips. Warm tongue. Misty breath. Fenris was swimming in the kiss. Normally, he didn’t allow Dorian to kiss him with such tenderness. But, after what Fenris had just done to him, perhaps he needed some reassurance that it really had just been a game, so Fenris didn’t pull away. Instead, he lifted his hand to Dorian’s face and returned the kiss.

Fenris felt himself sinking. Then drowning. Only one other man had ever kissed him this sweetly before. Strangely it felt the same – like soft velvet flames lapping at his heart as something joyous waltzed across his soul, making him feel. Making him ache.

When Dorian pulled back, Fenris met his gaze. “I’ll... think about it,” he said.


	6. The Inquisitor's Presence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's report is interrupted by the arrival of a message from Varric.

The war was over, but the war room was still just as good a place to hear Cullen’s reports as any. Also, the war room was situated close to Evelyn’s rooms, as opposed to Cullen’s office, which was near the top of the battlements. As if she needed to climb more stairs just to hear more stories involving goats.

Fortunately, there was no mention of goats today. Instead, she received an update on the new recruits, information about the success of the protective duty sent along to protect an important Antivan merchant who, according to Varric, would be an excellent resource for the Inquisition, some Red Jenny business at the behest of Sera, and finally the quelling of some riots in Cumberland as a favor to its king. Who, naturally, was a Pentaghast. Not for the first time, she silently cursed Cassandra for running back to the Chantry, instead of staying behind to help the Inquisition deal with her family in Nevarra.

The Inquisitor mulled over everything Cullen had told her. Everything was proceeding as well as it could, mostly thanks to Cullen, who was able to intuit her wishes and knew when he could, or shouldn’t, make a decision without consulting her. Satisfied with the current state of the Inquisition’s forces, she nodded. “Anything else, Cullen?”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Well,” he began, somewhat awkwardly, “there is the matter of a certain proposal that the Commander made to the Inquisitor recently...?”

_Blast and damnation!_ Honestly, the Inquisitor wasn’t quite ready to deal with Cullen’s proposal now. A camp full of Venatori magisters, a band of giants, a cave full of bears – by Andraste’s flaming knickers how she hated bears – or even a fucking dragon... now _those_ she could handle.

Still, she had evaded this conversation for too long. “Cullen, I think we should–” she began, only to be interrupted by a quick knock on the door before a young man, dressed in the livery of the Inquisition’s servants, stepped in. “Your Worship?”

_What the fuck now?_ It only took her a moment to recall the boy’s name. “Yes, Holden?”

“Messere Tethras requests the Inquisitor’s presence on the Eastern battlements.”

_Balls._ Being at the beck and call of her people was annoying. Didn’t they realize that she was the Inquisitor, damn it, and they should just come to her? Still, it was rare that Varric would go through the trouble of summoning her, which meant that it was important. “Thank you, Holden,” she said, dismissing the boy. Glancing at Cullen, she said, “Shall we?”

Ever dutiful, Cullen inclined his head. “Of course. Inquisitor.”

With Cullen trailing along at her side, the Inquisitor made her way over to the Eastern ramparts where Varric was waiting. She wasn’t quite sure she liked the anxious expression on the dwarf’s face. “Yes, Varric? You wanted to see me?”

The way Varric moved his hands – the right worrying over the left, then the left worrying over the right – did nothing to set her at ease. “Yes. There’s someone here you really need to talk to...”

Mystified, the Inquisitor stared at the dwarf. At least until a movement caught her eye, a flash of movement which was a man descending the stairs to her left.

Turning, the Inquisitor recognized the man as the one who had offered to sacrifice himself to save her and the others at Adamant. A man they had all presumed dead, but who was, inexplicably, still alive.

The Champion of Kirkwall. Garrett Hawke.


	7. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke talks about what happened to him after the events at Adamant.

The Inquisitor, Varric and Cullen listened as Hawke talked about what had happened to him after they’d left him behind in the Fade.

Or, rather, he didn’t _really_ talk about it. He said only that he had managed to drive back the Nightmare, and then, once the Rift had closed behind him, he’d made his retreat. After that, he’d wandered, lost, fighting his way through the Fade.

It had been a year since she’d last seen him, and she certainly didn’t know him nearly as well as Varric did, but it was glaringly obvious, even to the Inquisitor, that Hawke was a changed man. Physically, he was leaner, his features sharper, with an air of weariness about him, and, just above his left ear, there was now a streak of bone white in his dark hair. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired, and his eyes were haunted.

 _What really happened to him in the Fade?_ The Inquisitor doubted that Hawke would tell her even if she pressed him for details. Briefly she glanced at Cullen, who stood a few paces away, at attention, his expression grave. Once, he’d told her about his experiences when Fereldan’s Circle fell, so the Inquisitor knew about the torments that demons could make a man suffer. And how he wasn’t the same for years after that – lost, blinded by anger.

Her attention turned back to the Champion. He’d didn’t seem angry, or insane – just as if the effort of carrying his bones was exhausting him.

However, there was still one burning question about how Hawke had accomplished the impossible. “But how did you manage to escape?”

“Blood magic.”

Everyone was stunned into silence.

Varric found his voice first. “Uh, I think you might have to explain that one, Hawke.”

“If I can,” Hawke said. He leaned back against the railing, his eyes skimming over the mountainous landscape as he thought, before he turned back to the others. “At some point, I was rather surprised to stumble over some mages in the Fade. Not dreamers. They were _physically_ there. They’d found a way to tear open the Veil. I suppose they could have used an artifact, but I didn’t really get a chance to clarify, as there wasn’t a whole lot of _talking_ during that encounter. Fortunately, my presence surprised them more than theirs had surprised me. After a fight, I stepped through the tear they’d created. I only assumed they’d used blood magic because when I came out of the Fade I found myself in Tevinter.”

“Tevinter?” Varric and Cullen both said in surprise.

Only the Inquisitor wasn’t surprised. After all, she’d read Dorian’s report. “According to Dorian, the Venatori magisters have regathered in Minrathous, with the intention of repeating Corypheus’ ritual.”

“Inquisitor!” Cullen blurted out. Evelyn could tell by the look on his face precisely what he was thinking: _Maker’s breath! When were you going to tell me about this?_

Varric was grim. He glanced pointedly at Hawke. “And apparently they’ve already had some success.”

“Leliana’s spies are already working on it,” the Inquisitor said. “We’ll find out soon enough if Dorian’s intel was good. Though I suspect it is – as we all know, magisters in Tevinter don’t exactly make a great secret of their use of blood magic.”

“True,” Cullen conceded, albeit reluctantly.

Oh, yes, they would definitely be talking about this later.

She turned back to Hawke. “The Inquisition owes you a debt, but I do not know if we will ever be able to repay you.”

Hawke was thoughtful. The Inquisition had wealth and a vast array of resources, many of which could be useful to him. But there was only one thing that truly mattered. “You can start by telling me what happened to Fenris.”

Varric and the Inquisitor exchanged a glance. It only lasted a few seconds, but spoke volumes. “Fenris is still here,” she said, expression neutral.

In those haunted eyes, there was a spark of light. “Fenris is here?” he spoke in wonder. “Then – if our discussion is done – I would like someone to bring me to him right away.”


	8. A Pale Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Fenris are enjoying a moment in the stables...

Late afternoon. The sounds of wooden swords clacking in the distance, the smell of hay and horse thick in the air. It was warm on the second floor of the stables, where Fenris sat on the wooden bench, his pants open, chainmail pushed aside, as Dorian sank down to his knees between Fenris’ thighs and began to pleasure him.

Fenris leaned back against the wall. He liked the way Dorian’s tongue danced and darted over his cock. Hawke had always been so serious during this act, so focused. Dorian, on the other hand, was playful and teasing. As Dorian licked and sucked him, Fenris touched the mole on his right cheekbone, near his eye. Barely raised above the skin, it had a velvety quality. Fenris’ fingers circled it twice before trailing to Dorian’s hair, and tugging free the ribbon that had held it back in a tail.

Fenris smiled to himself. Dorian had started growing it out after Fenris’ comment about how, if Dorian had longer hair, it would give Fenris something useful to hold onto while fucking him.

Fenris wondered what Dorian used on his hair to make it that silky.

“Dorian?”

Dorian hummed around him. “Hmm?”

Normally, when they were having sex, Fenris was too focused on what he was doing to Dorian to think. However, now, he had that luxury. “How many men have you had sex with?”

Dorian hadn’t expected _that. What a question! And to ask it now..._ Still, Dorian stopped what he was doing to reply. “Do you mean including actual intercourse?”

“Yes.”

Dorian pretended to think, though he already knew the answer. He’d made this calculation when he’d posed a similar question to Fenris a while ago. “Counting you? Twelve,” Dorian admitted. Not a large number for a man of thirty-one, but it didn’t include the numerous flings in which Dorian hadn’t gone all the way. He may have been shamelessly promiscuous in his youth, but that didn’t mean he’d trusted just anyone enough to let them make use of his ass. “Can we talk about this later, perhaps?” Dorian asked. “I’d prefer to return to the task at hand.”

Fenris made a small noise of agreement.

Dorian bent his head again.

A few moments passed.

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really not mind always being on the bottom?”

 _That_ was actually a reasonable question. Not well-timed, but reasonable. “Well, I have tried the other role, but, honestly, it didn’t really suit me,” he said. “So, to answer your question: No, I rather prefer it this way.” When he noted the thoughtful expression on Fenris’ face, he added, “ _Amatus,_ are you _trying_ to make my jaw sore?”

Fenris blinked, then looked down at him. “Oh,” he said, as understanding dawned. “Should I come now, then?”

Dorian stared at him for a moment, absorbing the meaning of those words. “Wait, then – do you mean that you can just... come on demand?”

Fenris’ fingers continued to twirl absentmindedly in Dorian’s hair. “Holding back is easier, but – more or less – yes. As long as there is some... stimulation.”

Dorian wondered if that was an elf thing. He also supposed it could be a slave thing, so he decided not to ask. Although he already knew how well Fenris could hold back. Once, Fenris had said that he could fuck Dorian all night, and Dorian had teasingly challenged him to prove it. After changing positions a dozen times due to Dorian’s legs giving out, Fenris still hadn’t had a release. And Dorian had barely been able to walk the next day – still, he’d come three times, so it had been completely worth it.

Dorian’s tone became teasing. “So, while I’ve been toiling away here on my knees, among the stench of horses, you’ve been holding back?”

A smile quirked the elf’s lips. “I like how your mouth feels on me.”

Dorian smiled. “In that case, do feel free to come in it soon.”

As Dorian’s lips closed around him again, Fenris let go. His fingers twisted in Dorian’s hair, deliciously pulling, as his lyrium markings flashed a pale blue.

As Dorian swallowed, he thought, _Ah! So_ that _is how he comes on demand. Magic!_

Fenris twitched as Dorian continued to languidly suck him. Then he felt Fenris’ hands filtering through his hair again as his breathing slowed. Another moment passed, and then Dorian leaned up to kiss him, letting the elf taste himself on Dorian’s tongue.

Strangely, elves – at least Fenris – tasted different than humans. Like flowers.

A voice floated up from the first floor of the stables. Easily recognizable as Cullen’s. “Fenris? Are you in here?”

 _Blast it._ They broke apart. Dorian suddenly realized that the wooden swords in the practice yard had ceased their clacking. Not good. Fenris frowned, no doubt thinking about what Cullen’s reaction was going to be at catching him dallying with Dorian in the stables, instead of overseeing the drills in the practice yard. Which is what he had been doing, at least until Dorian had tempted him away.

Fenris made a gesture: _Stay back._ Dorian quietly eased himself so that he was sitting on the bench, out of sight, as Fenris quickly laced his pants and adjusted his chainmail, and then moved to the railing.

“Yes, Commander,” Fenris called down. Cullen was not alone. The Inquisitor was with him, and Varric, and... and... and...

Fenris’ back was to him, so Dorian couldn’t see his face. But his blood curdled as he heard Fenris’ voice drop a shaky half-octave in shock.

_“Hawke?”_


	9. One Glaring Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric, Fenris and Hawke together again.

Varric tried to decide if letting the elf have another drink was the best or the worst idea in all of Thedas.

Fenris rarely drank anymore. Oh, he’d nurse one glass of watered-down something when he played cards, but, as far as Varric knew, Fenris hadn’t been drunk in at least six months. Which meant there had also been no more picking fights or brooding elves smashing bottles against the walls of Skyhold, much to everyone’s collective relief.

There had been no dramatically romantic reunion between the Champion and his elf. Instead, Varric and the others had watched Fenris descend to the ground floor, unsteady wolf steps, then stop a few feet away from Hawke, where the two men just stared at each other for a moment.

Varric had never seen Fenris quite this flabbergasted before. Though, if we were to describe it in writing, he’d probably say that Fenris looked like a man who’d just had an archdemon rudely and unexpectedly tossed at his head. More accurately, he looked like someone who’d just seen the man he’d loved most come back from the dead.

Fenris wore his Inquisition armor. Similar to the armor worn by the foot soldiers, it was all silver chain, gray pants, blue leather belt and matching gloves, with a bronze chest plate bearing the Inquisition’s symbol. Which prompted Hawke to say the most Hawke-like thing ever. “It’s good to see you, Fenris. In something other than black, I mean,” he said. “And I do like what you’ve done with your hair.”

Fenris’ hand had crept up to the back of his bare neck. Still stunned, he could only manage to stutter Hawke’s name again.

Now, several hours later, Varric, Fenris and Hawke sat in the tavern, having eaten, still drinking and talking.

Fenris was quiet. Varric did most of the talking. Of course, Fenris was usually quiet and Varric usually did most of the talking, so there was nothing strange about that. In fact, it wasn’t very different than those evenings the three of them had passed at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall so many years ago.

Most of Varric’s stories focused on the events immediately following Hawke’s disappearance. How they’d bravely exposed the assassination attempt on Empress Celine’s life, thus securing an alliance with Orlais. The destruction of the bulk of Corypheus’ forces in the Arbor Wilds. And finally, the defeat of Corypheus and his dragon.

When Hawke urged him to continue, Varric smiled. “Now, Hawke, surely you must have heard all of this in your travels from Tevinter. All the bards do these days is sing the praises of the Inquisitor.”

“What, and miss the opportunity to hear the tales directly from my favorite dwarf?” Hawke asked with a smile. “Perish the thought!”

There it was: another flash of the easy-going, quick-to-make-a-joke Hawke. Acting as if nothing had changed. But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Well,” Varric said, playing along. “You always did have good taste in storytellers.”

Hawke’s gaze wandered over to Fenris for the hundredth time that evening, as if to reassure himself that the elf was still there. “Then, after you defeated Corypheus?”

“Oh, that part’s less interesting,” Varric said. “I now spend my days dealing with the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild and anybody who has two brass rings to barter, while Broody here teaches farm boys how to hit things with sticks.”

Hawke’s gaze traveled back to Fenris. “I’m surprised that _you_ agreed to join the Inquisition.”

“I...” Fenris began, then frowned a little. “It’s not like _that woman_ gave me much choice.”

Hawke smiled. “Yes, Trevelyan _is_ a force of nature, isn’t she? Still, you must think well of her if you’ve stayed in Skyhold this long.”

Fenris shrugged. “Varric is here. So is Bethany. Cullen. Bull. Krem. Where else was I to go?”

It didn’t escape Varric’s notice that Fenris had just listed all of his friends, except with one glaring omission.

“Krem?” Hawke searched his memory. “Do I know this Krem?”

“He’s one of the Chargers,” was Fenris’ terse reply.

“Who happens to be from Tevinter,” Varric filled in, since Fenris had never mastered the art of basic conversation. “And because he’s not exactly the talkative type either, his friendship with Fenris is mostly based on bashing each other with swords in the training yard while shouting curse words in Tevene. Like so: _Fasta vass!”_

For the first time this evening, there was a hint of a smile on Fenris’ lips. “Your accent is improving, dwarf.”

“Flattery from you, Broody? I think we need to mark this date on the calender so we can commemorate this event every year from now on.” Varric then downed the last dregs of his cup. “I’m sure you’ve heard enough stories for now. So I think I’ll call it a night.” Standing, he tossed enough coin on the table to cover everyone’s drinks. “See you around, Hawke.”

Varric trotted off, and now Fenris was alone. With Hawke.

Garrett Hawke. The man with fire in his hands, steel in his heart.

Hawke studied him. Fenris was still trying to accept the fact that the man was really _here._ It was... surreal. He didn’t know what to say.

Unlike, Hawke, of course, who never had a problem talking with anyone, whether they were insane Chantry sisters, pissed-off Qunari warriors, vengeful Coterie assassins, or even, once, the Queen of Fereldan. “So, you’ve made friends in the Inquisition.”

He could have pointed out that he’d known Varric and Cullen before, and that Cullen wasn’t exactly his friend, but instead, he just said, “I suppose I have.”

“Good. I’m glad that you didn’t have to be alone.”

Fenris, still not knowing what to say, merely shrugged.

Hawke’s dark eyes lingered on his for another moment. Then he lifted his cup, draining it dry, before setting it gently back down on the table. “It’s been a while, so I’m not sure I remember the way to our room,” Hawke said. “You’ll have to lead the way.”

Fenris nodded. Finished his own drink. And led Hawke out of the tavern.

As Hawke walked beside him, Fenris’ thoughts, only a little bit hazy from drink, were a jumble. _This... it was... Hawke... alive... impossible... here... Hawke.._.They soon reached the door of Fenris’ room, the key rattling in his trembling hand, then they were inside. Door locked. Alone.

It was such a small room. Dark. He’d never allowed Dorian to come to him here, which meant that the narrow bed only possessed memories of Hawke in it. His heart beat faster as Hawke turned to him, placing his hands on Fenris’ shoulders.

Hawke looked down at him, wearing a half-smile. “You and Varric,” he said. “Did you really think the Fade would kill me? I thought you two had more faith in me than that.”

Fenris didn’t know what to say to that. Even though he knew that Hawke was only teasing. “Hawke...”

Hawke stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

A storm of kisses. Fenris closed his eyes, tilting up his head. Felt Hawke’s hands tightening around his shoulders before sliding up to his neck. The way Hawke kissed him was not gentle. But not exactly rough, either. Needy. Hungry.

Fenris’ heart now hammered inside his ribcage as his hands curled uselessly at his side. It was still too surreal. Too unexpected. Too sudden. It was just too much. He made a small sound of distress, which became caught in his throat.

Hawke pulled back, eyes sharp and seeking. “Fenris?”

Fenris was vortex of memories and feelings, all mashed together as they swirled around him. Each memory burned, slashing its mark on his heart. He was in Adamant, watching Hawke fall into the abyss. Dying inside when Hawke didn’t return. In this room, weeping over his crushed heart. Drinking and brawling in the tavern. Following the Tevinter mage through the shadows to press him up against the wall of his room... and _Dorian..._

His voice was a whisper, crackling with emotion. “I... I thought you were _dead._ ”

Hawke’s expression became grim. Then he moved his hands to gently cradle Fenris’ face, and spoke softly, his tone soothing. “I’m not, I’m not. I’m here. With you. And I won’t leave your side again.”

Then Hawke drew Fenris into his arms. How familiar the feel of Hawke’s body as Fenris fell into him.


	10. What's in Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor speaks with Dorian.

Climbing the stairs to the library, the Inquisitor actually _paused._

Evelyn Trevelyan never paused. She made decisions and then acted upon them, without hesitation.

Three days had passed since Hawke’s return. In truth, she’d been too busy to give the matter much thought. Not only had there been the usual amount of Inquisition business, she’d also finally sat down with Cullen to discuss exactly why she hadn’t yet given him an answer. So her thinking about the Champion had been mostly limited to: _Hawke is here... interesting._ At least until Varric sent her a short and somewhat cryptic note. 

And now that note had sent her on a search for Dorian.

Except that she paused on the stairway. She asked herself if this was, indeed, any of her business. Or if this was even a problem she could fix. Analyzing the situation, she came to a conclusion. After all, she was a Trevelyan. Being noble born meant that she was no stranger to the powers of both manipulation and persuasion – skills that also came in handy as the leader of the Inquisition.

She found Dorian sitting in his chair in his favorite niche of the library, a book open on one knee. Except that his gaze was fixed on the narrow window.

“Dorian.”

Dorian’s gaze swiveled about. Slowly he shut the book on his knee, rising to replace it on a nearby shelf. “Strange, I seem to recall you making a promise about refurbishing the library, but your collection is just as atrocious as ever.”

The Inquisitor crossed her arms as she leaned against a bookcase. She was thinking that this would be easier if Varric’s note had been a little less cryptic. She had no idea what had happened, or what Dorian even  _knew._ “I assume you’ve heard...” she began, purposefully letting her words trail off.

Dorian’s hands tightened on the shelf before him as he cast his gaze down. The Inquisitor watched his shoulders shaking for a moment. Then Dorian let go of the shelf, straightened as he turned to face the Inquisitor. His eyes were fierce, and his voice seethed with enough sarcasm to kill a dracolisk. “Heard? Whatever do you mean? Oh, I suppose you mean about the very thing that  _everyone_ is talking about. ‘Oh, the Champion of Kirkwall is alive, how wonderful!’”

Of course he knew that much. The Inquisitor, silent, waited for more.

Dorian lifted a hand, making a flippant gesture. “Or maybe you wish to know if I’ve heard that the Champion and his beloved elf are back together again? Because, as a matter of fact, I have.” As he spoke, his words came faster, louder, angrier. “Of course, you’re probably wondering how I heard about this charming bit of news about the end of my relationship with Fenris. Was it from Fenris himself? Oh no, he didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face. He didn’t even write me a note. That  _bastard._ Or perhaps I heard it from one of my friends? Again, no. I suppose they had more  _important_ things to do. Instead, I overheard –  _overheard!_ – a conversation in the tavern by some common soldiers about how Fenris had dumped me for the fucking Champion of Kirkwall!”

By the end of his rant, Dorian was shouting. The Inquisitor resisted the urge to turn around to see exactly who was listening. Quietly, she said, “Dorian.”

Still seething, he snapped, “What?”

Well, that answered the question of what Dorian knew. It also revealed how he felt about it. In all this time, she had seen Dorian this upset only once – when he’d confronted his father.

The fact that Fenris had hurt Dorian this deeply made her want to find the elf and punch him in the face. But, of course, that wouldn’t resolve the problem. She did, however, have an idea who  _could_ resolve things, and he was standing directly in front of her.

Determined, the Inquisitor fixed him in a cool, unforgiving stare. “You once told me that you have to fight for what’s in your heart.”

Dorian blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Do you love Fenris?”

Dorian gaped at her in shock. “Do I...?” he sputtered, then his expression shifted, angry again. He sneered. “What does it matter? He’s made his choice.”

The Inquisitor continued to fix him with that unforgiving stare, her tone accusatory. “And you’re just going to let another man take him from you, without a fight?”

Dorian stiffened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Are you seriously suggesting that I challenge the Champion of Kirkwall for... what? Possession of Fenris? The man who sacrificed himself to save you?”

“That’s my debt, not yours. And that’s _exactly_ what I’m suggesting.”

Dorian growled in exasperation. “You’re mad,” he muttered.

“Answer the question, Dorian,” the Inquisitor snapped, making it an order. “Do. You. Love. Him.”

Dorian grimaced, silent.

“Do you?”

Dorian felt even more exasperated. He had no glib reply. He couldn’t even deny it. Defeated, he slumped against the bookcase, unable to meet her eyes, and mumbled a feeble response. “That’s... none of your business... Inquisitor.”

A moment later, he felt her hand on his shoulder. Offering comfort and support. “If you love him, then fight for him,” she said quietly. “And if you need to talk...”

Dorian sighed. He placed his hand briefly on top of hers, squeezing it once, briefly. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

 


	11. Nothing But Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian confronts the Champion of Kirkwall.

It took Dorian a day to find the courage to confront the Champion of Kirkwall.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of the man. Nor was he afraid to fight for what he wanted. No, he needed the courage to come to terms with how foolish he was going to look, and the inevitable pain, should Fenris reject him. And it was likely that Fenris would choose Hawke. He’d been with Hawke for ten years. He loved the man. Dorian still had no illusions about his relationship with Fenris. They had been together for a year. And although, it was more than just sex, he knew that Fenris didn’t love him. At most, the elf had become fond of him. Which was not the same as love.

In the evening, he found the Champion in the Herald’s Rest. Fenris was with him. That much was probably for the best, but Bethany and Varric were there at the table, too.

_Oh, lovely. An audience._

Undeterred, Dorian crossed the room. Ignoring the curious glances of the others, he put himself directly in Hawke’s line of sight. “Serah Hawke,” Dorian said. “We need to talk.”

Hawke studied the man before him. He wore mage robes, though he wasn’t carrying his staff at the moment. He was wickedly handsome, so of course Hawke remembered him. The mage from Tevinter who’d flirted a bit with Fenris, back when they’d first arrived at Skyhold. Hawke had even enjoyed teasing Fenris about it, once they’d found out what he was. “Talk? About what?”

“About Fenris.”

Hawke glanced at Fenris. On the elf’s face, there was uncertainty. Not quite sure what that meant, Hawke flicked his gaze back to the mage. “What about Fenris?”

Dorian straightened, shoulders back, chest out. “I’m afraid that I’m not willing to give him up so easily.”

Fenris growled a warning. “Dorian...”

Hawke’s gaze jumped between them. The mage was a puffed-up peacock, but his eyes were fierce with conviction. Fenris was glaring at Dorian, wolf fur bristling. “Fenris? Are you involved with this man?”

Fenris flinched. “I...” he began, then faltered. His eyes darted about. Everyone was watching him with open curiosity to see what he would say or do next. “Yes.”

Hawke’s expression grew dark. In his eyes, the burn of betrayal, which quickly turned into the flames of anger. Turning back to Dorian, Hawke snarled. “If it’s a fight you want, then I’d be more than happy to rip your fucking spine out!”

As he jumped to his feet, Hawke’s chair was sent skittering back. As the table overturned, Bethany, Varric and Fenris quickly scattered to safety.

Dorian had already considered what he would do if it actually came to fisticuffs. Knowing how Fenris felt about magic, Dorian had decided he wouldn’t resort to using spells against Hawke. Even if it meant taking a beating.

Dorian was strong, but not very experienced when it came to brawling, although he’d been known to bash an enemy of two with his staff. He did, however, manage to block Hawke’s first strike. The second strike, which came seemingly out of nowhere, landed squarely on his face.

Fist on flesh sound. His jaw went numb. The strangest sensation as his head snapped back. As Dorian fell, he saw nothing but stars.

“Hawke!” Fenris shouted.

Dorian lay as though he’d been permanently affixed to the floor. His head was still spinning as Hawke stepped forward to stand over him. Slide of steel sound. Dorian recognized that sound. He’d been in battle often enough to recognize it as the noise a sword makes when drawn from a scabbard.

Dorian was thinking that he might have to resort to magic after all. Only that his hands were refusing to cooperate.

Then Fenris was standing in front of Hawke, pushing him back. “Hawke! Stop this!”

A few heartbeats later – well, several, since Dorian’s heart was beating so fast – his vision came back into focus in time to see Hawke sheathe his sword, then move towards the door. “Fenris,” he called out. “We’re leaving.”

Fenris turned to follow Hawke.

 _All this... for what?_ Dorian called after him. “Fenris!”

Without turning, the elf threw both hands up in the air in a gesture that meant _Leave it be._

Bethany and Varric were then at either side, each extending a hand to help Dorian sit up.

Bethany peered into his face. “Are you all right?”

He was fine. Except for the fact that each of his friends had to keep an arm around his back just to keep him in an upright position, and that he was moderately certain that the Champion had just broken his face. He reached up gingerly to touch a hand to his mouth, which was wet. Drawing it back, he wasn’t too surprised to note that his fingers were covered with blood. “Someone should have warned me that the Champion packs a mean punch.”

Relief flitted across Varric’s face. “We would have, if we’d known you were going to do such a foolish thing,” he said. “Very romantic, I’ll grant you, but still pretty damn foolish.”

Bethany glanced at Varric. “I’ll take care of him,” she said. Then, to Dorian, “Come with me.”


	12. Violence Was Unlike Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a few questions for Fenris.

Back in their room, Fenris paced.

He tried to make sense of what had just happened. _What was that?_ Hawke and Dorian, actually fighting in the tavern. Over him. What in all the Black City had _that man_ been thinking...? And what had gotten into Hawke...? Hawke had always preferred to talk his way out of trouble. Resorting to violence was unlike him.

Eventually, Hawke, sitting on the only chair in the room, interrupted Fenris’ inner diatribe. “Fenris,” he said tiredly. “We need to talk.”

_Of course we do_ , Fenris thought. He stopped pacing.

Hawke shifted, cracking the knuckles first on one hand, then on the other. Which still hurt from the punch, but there was clearly nothing broken. He didn’t _want_ to know, but, at the same time, he _had_ to know. “So, then... you were really sharing a bed with that man?”

Fenris had never lied to Hawke before. There was no reason to start now. “Yes.”

Hawke regarded him with genuine surprise. “Really? With a mage? From Tevinter?”

Fenris leaned back against the wall as he jammed his fists into his armpits, thinking back to how he had started his relationship with Dorian. “He was just... there. And... willing.”

“I see,” Hawke said softly. It made sense, anyway. That man had made no attempt to hide his preferences, or his interest in Fenris. Still, that didn’t make the situation _acceptable._ “And when, exactly, were you planning on telling me?”

Fenris fretted. He hadn’t really thought about it. “I don’t know.”

Hawke leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Don’t you think it would have been better if I’d heard about it from you, and not him? Or from someone else in Skyhold?”

Those words were like a knife, tearing a ragged little wound in his heart. “I suppose so.”

Silent, Hawke stared at him, formulating his next question. Still needing to know, not wanting to know. “How long has this been going on?”

Fenris chewed on his bottom lip. Hawke, having known him for this long, knew how to interpret that gesture – Fenris did it whenever he was asked a question he didn’t want to answer. Then: “About a year.”

Hawke froze as if he’d been hit by a paralyzation spell. “A year?” he finally sputtered. “Fuck, Fenris! Just how long did you wait, exactly, after Adamant, before you slept with another man?”

Fenris stared down at the floor, biting his lip again.

“Fenris?”

“A week,” Fenris mumbled.

Incredulous, Hawke shouted, “A week?”

Fenris’ eyes flashed. “I thought you were dead! I was grieving for you!”

Pain oozed out from those words. But Hawke only felt his own pain upon hearing them. “And you couldn’t have waited until my ashes were cold?”

Guilt jagged through him. There was nothing he could say to defend himself.

Hawke leaned back in his chair. _One year..._ One year he’d been gone. And one year that Fenris had been sharing his bed with that mage. _Oh, Maker..._ a year was a very long time. “Please don’t tell me that you have feelings for him.”

Fenris didn’t quite meet Hawke’s eyes. “Of course not.”

They both knew that he was lying.

Hawke sighed. He oscillated between thinking that it didn’t matter now, and that he should have just rammed his blade into the Tevinter’s guts and painted the tavern red with his blood.

Hawke then had a terrible thought. He didn’t want to know. And yet he asked, anyway. “Fenris. Is he the only one, or were there others?”

Fenris fretted, biting his lip again. “I...”

That meant there were others. _Oh shit no._ As calmly as possible, Hawke asked, “How many other men have there been?”

Fenris thought. He didn’t want to talk about this, but... well, Hawke would probably find out anyway, since it was no big secret at Skyhold. He hadn’t exactly been _discreet,_ so... other than Dorian, there had been... ten soldiers... then the four men at the Winter Palace... then Zevran... Still not quite able to meet Hawke’s eyes, he answered the question. “Fifteen.”

Something cold crept over Hawke’s expression. He then rose from the chair, and stepped over to Fenris.

Fenris looked up at him curiously. Almost innocently. Completely unprepared for what happened next.

Hawke’s open hand sailed through the air. With a loud _smack!_ it landed on Fenris’ face. Fenris’ head swiveled to the right from the force of the unexpected blow.

Fenris froze, his brain trying to process the fact that Hawke had just slapped him. _That..._ that had never happened before. The blow knocked a memory out of him: briefly he was back in Tevinter, feeling the familiar sting of Hadriana’s hand against his face.

It took him a moment to let that memory go.

He jerked his head back, glaring at Hawke, his eyes fierce and furious.

“Shit,” Hawke muttered, his expression already changing into one of regret. “Fenris, I didn’t –”

Fenris spat at him. “Get out!”


	13. This Love Triangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight, everyone is brooding.

Dorian, darkly brooding, sat on the edge of the bed as Bethany dabbed at the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Dorian. Open.”

Dorian opened his mouth. A new shockwave of pain rolled across the lower half of his face. “Ah!”

Strange how being punched in the face hadn’t really hurt at the time. Only once he and Bethany had arrived at his room had Dorian started to feel it.

Bethany peered into his mouth. He winced as she inserted a finger, running it down alongside the teeth in his lower jaw. “At least your teeth are still intact.”

Normally Dorian would have taken the opportunity to make a quip about how that was fortunate because people liked his teeth, but it hurt if he moved his jaw too much.

He winced again as Bethany traced his jaw with her finger, whose tip glowed faintly with magic. Leaning back, she gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid my brother fractured your jaw,” she said. “Luckily for you, though, I can fix it.”

During the great purge at Skyhold, it was discovered that Bethany had some healing spells in her arsenal, so she was offered a job in Skyhold’s infirmary. Not wanting to return to a life on the run as an apostate, she had gladly accepted.

Her magic tingled as it seeped into him, grew hot as she repaired the bone.

Bethany straightened. “How does it feel now?”

Pain – gone. Dorian opened his mouth tentatively, then gave his jaw an experimental wiggle. “Good as new,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but failing rather miserably. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” she said. “As a Hawke.”

“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t exactly approve of your helping me.”

“My brother doesn’t get a say when it comes to my friends,” she said.

Dorian smiled softly in appreciation.

Bethany tilted her head, studying him. He was one of the most powerful mages at Skyhold. In fact, one of the most powerful mages she had ever met. If he had stayed in his homeland and joined the magisterium, she had no doubt that he’d be running Tevinter. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“With magic?” he asked. When she nodded, he just smiled. “Oh, if you’re going to fight over someone, physical violence is far more romantic, don’t you find?”

A faraway look clouded Bethany’s eyes. In her mind’s eye, she could see the streets of Kirkwall awash with the blood of mages and Templars. Then she turned back to Dorian, not smiling. “I think I’ve had enough violence for one lifetime.”

#

When a knock came on the door, Varric opened it. “Hawke?”

“Fenris kicked me out.”

Not an entirely unexpected development, given the earlier event at the Herald’s Rest. Varric opened the door wider, stepping back to allow Hawke in. “The floor’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

Varric shut the door behind him. Considered Hawke. More than weary, he was beaten down. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Hawke accepted the glass of Chasind Sack Mead from Varric, sitting down in the chair at the dwarf’s desk. Upon it, there were sheets of parchment, one of which was still wet, and a writing plume set across the inkwell. “Writing another book, Varric?”

“I’m thinking that this one will be called _Tales of the Inquisition_.”

Hawke gave him a dark look.

“What? The public is clamoring to know what really happened.”

Hawke snorted, and took a drink. He still hadn’t quite forgiven Varric for that book he’d written about _him._

Varric sat down on the edge of his bed across from Hawke, considering his friend’s mood. Apparently he’d been taking brooding lessons from the elf these past few years. “You know, there’s a perfectly good pair of ears here if you want to use them.”

Hawke thought. He was still trying to process what Fenris had told him. _Fifteen men, plus the mage... sixteen men!_ How, for the love of Andraste, was he supposed to accept that? Plus he’d only waited one week after Hawke was gone before he’d moved on to another man. Even if he had thought Hawke was dead – that cut. “He told me... about the others.”

“Ah.”

Hawke narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. “You knew, didn’t you, Varric?”

 _Well, this is awkward._ Varric made a vague gesture. “There were rumors, at the time.”

Hawke’s tone became rough. “And you didn’t try to stop him?”

“He was out of control,” Varric admitted. “There was no stopping him. At least, not until the Inquisitor conscripted him and threw Sparkler into his path.”

Hawke blinked. “You’ve given _him_ a nickname?”

“Hawke, you know I give everyone a nickname.”

The Champion took a long swallow of mead. He had a terrible thought about Fenris’ current whereabouts. For all he knew, Fenris was off fucking that mage right now. Worse, he could even picture them together. Just the thought of it made him want to kill.

And Garrett Hawke was _very_ good at killing mages.

#

Sorting through his feelings was like trying to untangle a knot of yarn the size of Skyhold.

 _Hawke... He’s not the same man that went into the Fade._ Fenris had known that from the first moment he’d seen Hawke in the stables. He just hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that the Champion was no longer the same Hawke that he knew and loved. No, that Hawke would never have done anything to hurt him. Ever.

This Hawke was violent, angry, possessive. Fenris was intimate with those feelings, so of course he recognized them in Hawke. He just hadn’t seen the depth of them until they’d put themselves on full display in the tavern.

In Hawke’s eyes, Fenris had seen the murderous rage. If he hadn’t stepped in, Hawke would have killed Dorian in cold blood.

And, yet, Fenris still held love for the Champion in his heart. Surely there had to be a way he could help Hawke. Fenris owed him that much, and more. And if anyone was strong enough to defeat the demons in his own head...

He startled at the knock on the door. He crept over to it, and, before he unlocked it, called out. “Who is it?”

He managed to wipe the surprise off his face before he let the Inquisitor in.

Trevelyan stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room. Judging his meager existence. He had his sword, two sets of armor, some clothes, and two books that Dorian had gifted him, nothing more.

Fenris wasn’t in the mood for company. “What do you want?” he snarled. When the Inquisitor turned, the sharp reprimand in her gaze cowed him a little. He added a subdued, “Inquisitor.”

Reaching for his chair, she positioned it in the middle of the room, then straddled it backwards, her arms slung across the chair’s back. She then studied him for a very long time.

After her talk with Dorian, the Inquisitor had instructed Leliana to keep a close eye on everyone involved in this love triangle. Then, just a little while ago, she had received a report about the fight in the tavern, which was followed by an update that Fenris had kicked Hawke out. This overheard at Varric’s door. Which brought her here.

Dorian was easy to manipulate. He had a gross sense of decency, and was cursed with too much passion and pride. Fenris, on the other hand... as an ex-slave he longed for freedom, even though it frightened him. Conversely, he desired to submit, even as he fought to resist it.

As the Inquisitor studied Fenris, he studied her. Oh, he knew why she was here. She was going to try to convince him to remain with the Inquisition. Maybe even threaten to kill him again – though, to be fair, she probably _had_ been drunk at the time.

Impatient, Fenris heaved an irritated sigh. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me that I can’t leave the Inquisition.”

A beat. Then, quite calmly: “No.”

Fenris froze, too stunned to react. Then he drew a deep breath. “And you’d really let me go, just like that?”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “I don’t want you to go, but whether you stay with us or leave with Hawke is entirely your decision.”

Not... what he expected. Fenris quested for a response, but the Inquisitor’s gaze sharpened and she spoke again.

“Fenris... you _do_ know how to make a decision for yourself, don’t you?”

Fenris bristled at the unspoken insult. “What?”

“You know. Like how you decided to stop killing yourself with drink?”

Fenris huffed.

“Or like how you decided to join the Inquisition?”

He snorted softly.

“Or like how you decided to let Dorian get close enough to you to love you?”

Fenris stared at her. At his sides, fingers clenched into fists. “Don’t bring Dorian into this!”

The Inquisitor contemplated him as he quivered with silent rage. “Well,” she said, then stood up, moving the chair back to its original place against the wall. “I’ve said what I came to say. So I’ll leave you to think about what would make you happy.”

_Happy...?_

She sauntered towards the door. Stopped in front of Fenris. Watching him carefully, she slowly lifted her hands until they were close to his face. Although he was confused, he didn’t protest when the Inquisitor put her hands on him. Leaning down slightly, she pressed her lips to his brow, bestowing upon him the sort of a kiss that a mother would give her son.

_Loved._

At his sides, Fenris’ fists uncurled.

After a moment, the Inquisitor released him. Stepping back, she gave him a warm, genuine smile before slipping out the door.


	14. The Heart of the Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tells Hawke what he wants. And then Hawke does a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost titled this chapter DAMN IT HAWKE!
> 
> Warning: This scene goes to a rather dark, violent place. Contains a reference of non-con in Fenris' past, and the whole thing gets kind of rapey. So please read at your discretion.

Hawke showed up the following night.

Fenris could smell the wine on his breath, but he couldn’t tell how drunk or sober Hawke was. Hawke held his liquor well, so it had always been hard to tell.

Wordlessly, Fenris let him into the room.

Hawke regarded Fenris. The elf’s body language was easy to read. He was reserved, but at least he was no longer angry. He was also clearly waiting to hear what Hawke had to say, so he just said it. “Fenris, pack your things. We’re leaving Skyhold tomorrow.”

Suddenly agitated, Fenris began to pace. “Hawke.” Turn, step, step, step, turn. “You didn’t even ask me.”

Hawke was genuinely puzzled. “What?”

“You’ve never asked me what _I_ want.”

Stung, Hawke protested. “That’s not true!”

Fenris stopped moving to glare at Hawke.

Hawke crossed his arms over his chest. “ _You_ wanted to go after Hadriana. Remember?”

“For ten years I have followed you, Hawke, and that’s the only time I asked anything of you.”

Well, it was true. Granted, he’d helped Fenris clear out Danarius’ mansion when they met, but that had been with the promise of coin. Hawke sighed. “Fine. Then what do you want?”

Fenris paused. He’d had all of last night and all of today to think about it. Time only broken by a few hours of poor-quality sleep. More than enough time to make a decision. “I want to stay with the Inquisition.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It’s because of that mage, isn’t it?”

Fenris could have said no. His reason for staying was simple enough: he’d made a new life here, one in which he was surrounded by friends, and he didn’t want to leave it behind. Except that a large part of this life included Dorian. Even if it meant that he could keep Hawke, he wasn’t sure how he could possibly untangle Dorian completely from his life.

Fenris frowned. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Hawke.”

Hawke stepped forward. Fenris flinched as Hawke slammed his hands against the wall at either side of Fenris’ head. “Do you think I enjoy it?” Hawke demanded. “I can’t stop thinking about you and him. It sickens me.”

Fenris dropped his gaze. Then, almost defiantly, he lifted his chin again, meeting Hawke’s eyes.

“Is there anything you haven’t done with him?” Hawke continued. Tevinter culture was decadent in all ways, and Tevinters were notorious for their so-called bedroom games. “Does he make you play ‘Master and Servant?’”

Fenris’ chin dipped down as he averted his eyes again. But this time, he was biting his lip.

Which meant that he had. _Master and Servant. Oh shit no._

In that moment, for a misunderstanding, everything spiraled rapidly out of control.

Hawke snapped.

Before Fenris could react, Hawke grabbed him, then spun him around so he was facing the wall. Hawke’s breath was hot against his ear, as he shoved one hand down the back of Fenris’ pants. “Do you give him this?”

Fenris froze as he felt the pressure of Hawke’s fingers in the cleft of his ass. Suddenly he was in a very bad place.

_Minrathous. Wearing nothing but decorative chains. On a table. At a party. Someone inserting something metallic, cold, and magical inside him._

Then, when Hawke’s finger actually pushed in, Fenris went to an even worse place.

A whimper escaped him.

That pathetic little noise was enough to bring Hawke back to his senses. Before him, Fenris was shaking, his breathing rapid and shallow. Whatever atrocious things that had happened in Tevinter, the abuses that Fenris had forced himself to forget – he was now reliving them.

Hawke quickly withdrew his hand.

What the fuck had come over him? Hawke knew better than to touch Fenris there. He’d learned that through trial and error, quite early on in their relationship, a long time ago.

“Fenris?”

Fenris, still shaking, felt the ancient rage rising inside him, unstoppable as a flood, as all the lyrium under his skin surged to life.

Spinning, glowing, he lashed out instinctively, unthinking, still caught in the nightmare of his past, striking with his ghost fist.

Contact.

The nightmare released him, sinking back into a sea of repressed memories.

Fenris suddenly realized that his hand was in Hawke’s chest, partially phased fingers squeezing Hawke’s heart.

How rapidly the heart of the Champion beat.

On Hawke’s face, an expression of complete shock, mingled with pain. And then, Fenris saw a strange glimmer in his eyes... something prompting Fenris to do it. To crush his heart and end his pain.

Oh Maker, he felt sick. Like his insides were black and bloated with rot.

Fenris became completely incorporeal again, staggering back. His body thumped against the wall, the lyrium glow fading, as Hawke, clutching at his chest, dropped to his knees on the floor. Each of them drew deep, jagged breaths that gradually slowed, becoming more shallow.

Hawke was the first to move. Shakily, he rose to his feet. Picked up his travel pack from the corner of the room. Moved to open the door, where he paused, not looking at Fenris.

Fenris said nothing. Nor did Hawke. There was nothing to say. Between them, something had irrevocably broken.

And then, just like that, Garrett Hawke once again disappeared from his life.


	15. The Angel of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Angel of Death card is played, it is time for the players to reveal their hands. In more ways than one.

Around them, the soft shuffle of cards, the steady buzz of voices, the clink of glasses, and the strains of music of the bard Maryden.

_Find me still searching for someone to lead me..._ _Can you guide me to the revolt inside me?_

Varric drew a card, considered it briefly before tucking into his hand and selecting another to discard. “By the way,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I received a note from Hawke today. He said he’s on his way to Starkhaven.”

Dorian drew next. They’d started this round a while ago, and he still only had a pair of serpents. Not very promising. “I’m surprised you didn’t go with him, Varric.”

“Who, me?” Varric said. “Nah. I hate Starkhaven.”

They continued to play. Varric won the round, called for more drinks, shuffled the deck and dealt a new hand.

On the second pass, Varric drew another song card, which meant he already had three. Which meant that odds were good that he was going to win again. “So,” he remarked, again apropos of nothing, “I haven’t seen Broody lately.”

Dorian drew, frowned at the card, and immediately discarded it.

The Inquisitor cast a quick glance at Dorian, who was pretending to study his cards with rapt interest. She then snapped up the card Dorian had just discarded. Technically cheating, but cheating at Wicked Grace was generally expected, and, after all, she was the Inquisitor. “That’s because I sent him out with the Chargers to take care of some business.”

They continued to drink and play in silence. Until Varric won the round, and it was Dorian’s turn to shuffle and deal the cards.

The Inquisitor considered her hand. Heavy with knights. As she discarded, Dorian chirped up, rather cheerfully, apropos of nothing, “So! When’s the wedding?”

The Inquisitor attempted to stab him with her eyes.

Cullen drew from the pile, smiling softly. “In six months’ time.”

Dorian perked up. “Congratulations! Then this means you finally worked out those pesky complications, I take it?”

Cullen tapped his cards against the top of the table. “Yes. Well. Eve informed her family that, as the Inquisitor, she could do whatever she damn well pleased. And that they could all just, ah, go to the Void if they didn’t like it.”

Dorian smiled cattily at her. “Ah. Blunt as a dwarven war hammer as usual, I see.”

The Inquisitor grunted. “It was effective.” Her eyes slid over to Cullen. “You forgot to discard,” she murmured huskily, “my love.”

_Templar igniting, fire inside me._

Cullen flustered. “Ah. Right. Umm, my mistake.”

Varric and Dorian exchanged an amused glance. Playing chess with Cullen was fine, Dorian thought. But, oh, yes, they were definitely going to have to include the Commander in their weekly games of Wicked Grace from now on.

The Inquisitor won the next round. Then it was her turn to deal.

After a few more rounds, the door to the tavern opened. Iron Bull’s laugh rang through the room as he entered, followed by Fenris and the Chargers. As the Chargers and their leader dispersed, Fenris made his way to their table.

The Inquisitor gave him a moody look. “Don’t tell me that you’ve come directly to give me your report, like a good little servant of the Inquisition.”

Fenris pulled up a chair from the next table and then sat down on it. “No, I’ve come to drink swill and play cards with my friends.”

The Inquisitor smiled approvingly. “Good man. I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

Cullen dealt him in. Play continued.

Dorian’s hand was total and utter crap as usual. Once again, he pretended that he didn’t notice the Inquisitor stealing his discard. He continued staring at his cards for as long as could, but then, unable to resist, he lifted his gaze to Fenris, sitting across from him.

He hadn’t seen Fenris since the night that Hawke had fractured his jaw.

Now, Fenris was looking at him.

Their eyes locked.

Play ground to a halt.

Varric considered his two friends thoughtfully.

The Inquisitor smiled.

Then Cullen piped up. “Have we stopped playing for a reason...?” he began innocently, then finally noticed the tension between the two men. “Oh.”

With a smile, Fenris let the Angel of Death fall to the table.

#

Dorian unlocked his door, then turned to the seemingly empty corridor, calling out in Tevene. “Are you going to come in? Or would you prefer skulking in the shadows?”

There was no hesitation this time. Fenris emerged from the darkness, then slipped past Dorian into his room.

Dorian shut the door, sealing them in, watching Fenris move in a semi-circle around him. Steeling his nerve again. Dorian leaned against the door, waiting.

Fenris stopped at the table, fingers absentmindedly tracing the grain of the wood. “I should tell you,” he finally said, his voice flat. “I had sex with Hawke.”

 _Commendable of him to be so honest._ “I know.”

A flash of surprise on Fenris’ face. “You know?”

“Well... more like I assumed.”

Fenris’ hand became still as he stared at Dorian. “And it doesn’t bother you?”

Dorian paused, thinking. _Well, if we’re going to be honest..._ “No, I can’t say that it doesn’t bother me... but it _is_ understandable.” When Fenris cocked his head curiously at him, Dorian added, “Though, to be perfectly clear, I do prefer not to think about it, and I certainly don’t want any gory details.”

 _Understandable?_ Not... what Fenris had been expecting. Recalling Hawke’s reaction to his confession of infidelity, he grimaced.

“Fen?”

Dorian’s voice drew him back to the present moment. “Yes, Dorian?”

“This may be a foolish question, but... are you all right?”

Fenris thought. What had happened with Hawke hadn’t been easy, but it was nothing compared to the pain of losing him the first time. Being out on a mission with the Chargers had helped him clear his head and put things into perspective. Still, it wasn’t as if he were ready to dance across the ramparts of Skyhold with joy. “I’ve... been better.”

Dorian smiled gently. Then he pushed himself off the door, taking a few steps forward. Once close to him, Dorian reached out for Fenris.

Fenris allowed Dorian to pull him down to the bed. Let himself sink into the arms of the mage in that familiar position of head upon Dorian’s shoulder, arm across his chest, with Dorian’s arms encircling him. Offering comfort.

Minutes ticked by, measured out by Dorian’s clock.

Fenris fretted. He’d hurt Dorian, certainly... but it seemed like Dorian had forgiven him? Maker, he was so inexperienced when it came to actual relationships. All he knew was that he hadn’t had sex with Dorian for several weeks. Given their past history, that was a long time. Which made him wonder if perhaps Dorian didn’t want him because he’d slept with Hawke?

Fenris’ hand lightly squeezed Dorian’s shoulder. “No games tonight?”

Dorian remained still for a moment. Then he pulled Fenris closer. “I’m fine with this,” he said. His fingers languidly trailed over Fenris’ back. “Though, I was thinking... if we did share that room the Inquisitor offered us, we could play there. I know you haven’t seen it, but it has the most marvelous, big bed.” Dorian grinned salaciously. “With four bedposts.”

Fenris felt his heart pulse within his throat. “You really still want to live together?”

“It wouldn’t be so very different from the way things are now, would it?” Dorian asked. “Just more... official.”

Fenris considered that. “All right,” he said.


	16. Soft Velvet Flames Lapping at His Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Dorian play a bondage game.

Standing in his new room a week later, Dorian tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his lips as he studied the items that Fenris had laid out next to him on the bed.

It was a lovely room. More spacious than the last, it included a small breakfast nook with a table and two chairs, some built-in bookshelves, a writing desk, and two glass doors which led to a small, but private balcony with a stupendous view.

And, best of all, this marvelous bed.

Which was now covered with the objects for the next game.

He and Fenris had already negotiated the rules of the game. There would be no fulfilling of Dorian’s rape fantasies this time. Quite simply, Dorian would allow Fenris to tie him up and have his way with him.

He easily recognized the purpose of two of the objects, but he’d never seen anything like the third. A narrow cylinder of steel with leather cuffs at either end of it. Sitting down on the bed, he tapped it with his fingers. “What is this?”

Fenris reached up, brushing a lock of snow-white hair back from his brow. “The cuffs go around your ankles,” he explained. “The bar then prevents you from closing your legs.”

Dorian withdrew his hand. He’d had a terrible thought.

His dismay must have shown on his face, because Fenris then cocked his head, looking at him with concern. “Dorian? What’s wrong? You don’t want to do this?”

“No, I do. I was just wondering...” Dorian trailed off. Maker, he didn’t want to ask this. He assumed that it was a slave thing. However, he knew that they weren’t going to go forward without his reassuring Fenris. “How ever did you... well... come up with this contraption?”

Fenris visibly relaxed. “I borrowed it from Bull.”

Dorian considered the implications of that statement. _Well._ He was glad that it was _not_ a slave thing. But oh, Maker, he didn’t even want to imagine _that_ conversation. Or how he was ever going to be able to look the Qunari in the eye again. “You... talked to _Bull_ about our sex life?”

Fenris, completely unruffled, just shrugged. “He had some good advice on how to keep it safe.”

 _Maker save me._ Well, what was done, was done, he supposed. He indicated the gag, an item clearly crafted specifically for that purpose. “And... he gave you this, as well?”

“Would you like to try it on?”

Appalled, Dorian protested. “I don’t even know where that thing has been!”

Fenris’ mouth twitched up into a smile. “It’s never been used. He said we could keep it.”

 _Oh._ “In that case, I suppose I should.”

Dorian put it on. Made of soft leather, it possessed a bit that fit behind his teeth, effectively pinning his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. It did feel intrusive, but wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Experimentally he tried to speak, but his words came out as incomprehensible noise. Taking it off, he noticed Fenris’ curious look, and felt the sexual tension that had appeared in the air.

“It’s fine... but perhaps you should save that for last,” Dorian suggested. Then he smiled sultrily. “Well, then. Shall we begin?”

Fenris slipped off the bed. Moved to stand before Dorian. Flashed a smiled at him before leaning down to kiss him, thrusting his tongue into Dorian’s mouth. Pulling back, he smiled again. “Take off your clothes.”

Dorian was quick to comply, enjoying the hungry look in Fenris’ eye as he revealed more and more skin. Once he was naked, Fenris ordered him to kneel on the bed and put his hands behind his back. Using thin strips of leather, Fenris tied his wrists together.

“Not too tight?”

Dorian flexed, testing the bond. The leather itself was soft, pliable, and less likely to chaff his skin than the rope. Curious, Dorian asked, “Nug skin?”

“Halla hide. Nug skin wouldn’t have been long enough.”

 _Ah._ “A little tighter, please.”

Fenris adjusted the straps around Dorian’s wrists. Once Dorian was satisfied, Fenris reached for the remaining straps. Winding them around Dorian’s torso, by the time he was done, Dorian’s arms were tied snugly against his sides, rendering his upper body immobile.

Next, Fenris attached a cuff around Dorian’s left ankle. “Spread your legs.”

Dorian smiled at the huskiness he’d heard in the elf’s voice. He was glad that he wasn’t the only one enjoying this. Slowly, he let his knees slide apart.

“More.”

 _More_? Dorian complied, suddenly aware of his inner thigh muscles, as Fenris buckled on the right cuff.

He felt Fenris’ weight leave the bed, then the elf was in front of him, the gag in hand. Dorian smiled wickedly at him. “How do I look?”

Fenris’ voice was practically a growl. “Hot.”

Dorian tossed back his head and teasingly opened his mouth.

Once Fenris had the gag strapped into place, he leaned back to look at Dorian. “The watchword. Hum it.”

Because Fenris had insisted on there being some way for Dorian to communicate if he wanted to stop, they’d agreed that Dorian would hum a song. Dorian had picked the song. Something a bit more jaunty probably would have been more appropriate, but he hadn’t been able to resist selecting a song about mages. He hummed a snippet, the words running through his mind.

_Enchanter, come to me._

At least, those were the original lyrics. In Dorian’s head, he’d already changed them to _Enchanter, come on me._

“Good,” Fenris said. Slipped off the bed. As he slowly undressed, he admired his handiwork. Dorian, legs spread, exposed, his cock already hard. _Eager. Good._ Fenris liked how the pale straps of halla leather offered a striking contrast against Dorian’s bronze skin. There was something even erotic about the gag fitted into his mouth. Unfortunately it meant that Fenris couldn’t kiss him, but taking away Dorian’s ability to use his glib tongue made him feel even more powerful than he’d imagined.

Dorian experimentally leaned back on his heels as he watched Fenris undress. It was the only free movement he could make, however. It made him realize just how helpless he was. Unable to speak or gesticulate, he couldn’t even cast a spell. Which, strangely, he found dreadfully exciting.

At the same time, it was terribly frightening. Dorian had always been cocky about his magical power, to the point where he’d bullied the other boys at school. He’d never let another man have power over him, and certainly never in bed. And yet, he’d just willingly given Fenris complete and utter control over him.

Excitement grew and fear ebbed as Fenris climbed back onto the bed and began to touch him.

Fenris’ hands were everywhere, stroking in a leisurely, teasing manner. Everywhere, that is, but Dorian’s cock. Minutes on the clock ticked by. Then Dorian made a muffled moan as Fenris’ fingers pressed into the tensed muscles of his inner thighs. Another muffled moan as Fenris, kneeling behind him, pressed his erection against Dorian’s ass, kissing and nipping at Dorian’s neck as his hands skirted around Dorian’s hips, just inches from Dorian’s cock.

Fenris continued on this course of action, now grinding his hips against Dorian’s ass. Maker, he loved the feel of Fenris’ cock against him so much that he almost made a noise of protest as the elf shifted, now kissing Dorian’s spine.

Then Fenris’ mouth was everywhere. First he kissed and nipped his way down Dorian’s back, paying homage to Dorian’s fine ass by coveting it with kisses. Then shifting again, he worked his way down the front, lingering at ears, throat and nipples before slipping down to Dorian’s thighs. Where he paused, just breathing.

Dorian quivered as he felt Fenris’ hot breath blowing over his cock. And then he was writhing in his bonds, his cries muffled by the gag, as Fenris, in one quick, smooth motion, took all of Dorian into his mouth.

 _Maker, this elf..._ Dorian still didn’t know how he managed to that trick. He was half-convinced that Fenris’ previous master must have used magic to remove the elf’s gag reflex.

By the time Fenris ceased sucking him, Dorian was already floating in a haze of ecstasy.

Fenris drew back. Any concerns he might have had about Dorian’s feelings about this game were swept away when he saw Dorian’s eyes. He _liked_ this. Wanted this. Fenris reached for Dorian’s shoulders, flaring his lyruim just a little.

Dorian, helpless, could only let Fenris gently lower his upper body down until his face and chest were pressed against the mattress, so that he was still on his knees, but now his ass was up in the air.

Fenris paused to fetch the oil. Considered his handiwork again. Seeing Dorian like that was extremely alluring. Briefly he wondered if he weren’t, deep down, as perverse as the Tevinter masters. That thought gave him pause, at least until he recalled how he thought Dorian was quite alluring in any situation, even when slinging spells in the battlefield while covered in mud and gore.

Fenris settled on the bed behind Dorian. He let some oil drip from his fingers but didn’t rub it in yet. Instead, he caressed Dorian’s backside, light fingers moving in increasingly smaller circles until he was circling Dorian’s hole.

Dorian began making muffled noises again.

Fenris continued to swirl his fingers teasingly around the outside. Then, after applying more oil, slowly twisted his finger in.

More muffled noises as Fenris moved two, then three fingers teasingly inside him.

Fenris liked the noises that Dorian was making. He liked, too, how Dorian, wanting more, tried to thrust his hips back onto Fenris’ fingers, and he liked the satisfying leathery creak as Dorian writhed in his bonds again. He thought about how he could tease Dorian like this all night.

But Dorian was more than ready. And Fenris was feeling selfish tonight. With his free hand he oiled up his own cock, then, once in position, plunged in.

Dorian made a loud noise as Fenris suddenly slid into him. Then continued to moan each time Fenris thrust into him in a fast, unrelenting, steady rhythm.

_Maker yes that._

His eyes closed, Dorian was still lost in ecstasy, only now it felt like his body was numb. Or, rather, all he could feel now was the splendid sensation of Fenris ravishing his ass.

Fenris ran his hand down Dorian’s back, enjoying the feel of skin as it alternated with the leather straps, and continued to fuck him hard and proper, at least until he felt Dorian twitching around his cock, and knew that the mage was close.

Fenris stopped moving.

Dorian squirmed, making noises of protest in his throat. Fenris watched his fingers curling and uncurling uselessly, listened to his breath whistling through his nose. Finally Dorian stilled. Fenris waited a little longer before he started, once again, to thrust.

He brought Dorian to the brink once more, stopping again. Dorian’s noises this time were even more desperate. Fenris was moderately certain that Dorian was trying to plead with him, but the gag prevented it.

The third time, as Dorian was closing in on his peak, Fenris reached around and captured Dorian in his fist.

As Fenris touched his cock, he set Dorian’s world on fire.

Because he couldn’t breathe through his mouth, Dorian wasn’t quite getting enough air, which had the effect of making his head light, but also served to intensify the orgasm that Fenris was now ripping out of him.

For a moment, Dorian touched something divine.

Then he was gone.

#

Only later did Dorian become aware of Fenris’ hands on him, easing him back up. Loosening and unwinding his bonds, then lightly rubbing his wrists. Hands carefully easing him to lie down on the bed. Removing the gag, and then gently sweeping the hair back from his face.

Floating. Fingers raking softly through his hair.

Everything was perfect.

Then Fenris’ beautiful voice rumbled softly over his skin. “Dorian?”

“Mmm,” Dorian murmured. “Not a drop to drink, yet I feel completely wasted.”

Fenris laughed softly. “Good.”

Eventually Dorian managed to crack one eye open, then the other. Rolling over onto his back, he looked up at Fenris, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him. Lifting a hand, he placed his fingers lightly on Fenris’ lips. “Fen?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you still hate me?”

Against his fingers, he felt Fenris smile. Then Fenris reached up, lowering Dorian’s hand. His lips were a straight line, but the smile still lingered in his eyes. “Immensely.”

Dorian smiled lazily, then pulled Fenris down for a kiss.

Gentle pressure. Soft lips. Warm tongue. Misty breath. Soft velvet flames lapping at his heart, making him feel again.

It felt. That itself had been a surprise.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this (Well, except for the Hawke/Fenris break-up. That almost killed me.) Comments, criticism, kudos, and requests are always welcome!


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